Chapter 2 - South of the Ordinary (part 2)

12. června 2013 v 10:33 |  English version

Half an hour later, Sherlock's pacing, insofar as the tiny amount of floor space in his quarters allows, and wringing his hand through his hair. There's a single rap on the door.
"It's me," John says even as Sherlock wrenches the door open and yanks him inside.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock demands, slamming the door again as his eyes swarm over John's face and hands and unarmored body.
"Yes, of course I'm all right," John says in surprise. "It was fine - it was under control."
"They were shooting at you," Sherlock snaps.
"People shoot at me all the time," John frowns in confusion. "It only counts if they kill me."
Sherlock stares at him for a second, and then his mouth curls and he starts to laugh. John wrinkles his nose, his own laughter just a breathy exhalation.
"John Watson," Sherlock grins, "you are the most completely - "
He catches John by the face, both hands curving around John's cheeks, dips his own face and smothers John's mouth with his own. For a few seconds John clutches at Sherlock's arms, and the narrow bow of his mouth breaks open under Sherlock's lips and tongue. But then he lifts one hand, presses his palm into Sherlock's chest, and pushes him back until the connection between their mouths is lost. Sherlock grimaces in frustration.
"That's an adrenaline reaction," John says gently.
"Yes, obviously, I do know," Sherlock says, eyes flashing as he dips his head again and tries recapture John's mouth.
"You don't actually want to do this," John says, holding him off.
"On the contrary," Sherlock says, "I can't remember the last time I wanted to do anything so badly."
He leans in enough to press his erection against John's hip, and then shifts to draw his thigh across the front of John's combat pants. John's eyelids flutter heavily, and his tongue flicks between his lips.
"You're hard," Sherlock murmurs, his mouth only inches from John's. "You want me, too."
"I didn't say I didn't," John says, looking up at Sherlock from under his brows. "I'm just - trying to show some sense here."
"Says the man who invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock says, his eyes devouring the thin curves of John's lips.
"Yeah, that wasn't all me," John says huskily. "Someone else had already decided to do that and I just came along for the ride."
"All right; if that's the kind of rationalization that works for you," Sherlock growls. "I've already decided I'm going to suck you until you come down my throat."
"Oh, bugger," John says, his eyelids flickering. "Okay, if you're going to anyway, I'm in."
Sherlock exhales loudly, both hands skimming greedily over John's face and neck and shoulders.
"Sit down," he says, already using the press of his chest and thighs to guide John back the single step to the side of the bed.
John yields, sinking down onto the edge of the mattress and leaning back on his elbows with his thighs splayed wide to make room for Sherlock. Sherlock goes down onto his knees in front of him; there's barely room for the length of Sherlock's shins between the side of the bed and the legs of the table. He runs one hand up John's thigh, and the other down his chest and stomach. John watches through slitted eyelids as Sherlock smears his open mouth against John's side, against his hip, huffing heat through his clothes. He moves both hands to the front of John's pants, and picks open his belt and fly buttons.
"Shit, fuck," John breathes softly.
"Lift," Sherlock says.
John plants his feet and lifts his hips. Sherlock strips pants and underwear down John's thighs; his cock falls to lie up along his belly, half-hidden by his shirttails. Compared to the deep gold tan of his face and hands, the skin beneath his clothes is startlingly pale, plushly soft and creamy, with a narrow line of fair-brown hair running down his belly and widening over his groin. Sherlock pulls John's clothes down his shins and around his boots, leaving his ankles tethered but with enough space between his knees for Sherlock to lean over him. He slides both hands up John's bare thighs. John shakes a deep breath in.
Sherlock dips his face, inhaling deeply. John tips his hips forwards; his cock lifts from his belly and slants towards Sherlock. Sherlock palms John's shirttails aside, rings his forefinger and thumb around John's cock, and slips it into his mouth. John's entire body jolts, but the only sound he makes is a sharp, nasal inhalation. Sherlock hollows his cheeks, sucking softly and lavishing saliva on John's glans. John breathes deeply and deliberately. Sherlock starts to bob his head lightly, his mouth moving quickly and smoothly around the shaft of John's cock.
"Jesus, that's nice," John says on a long exhalation.
Sherlock switches to moving his mouth more slowly, long strokes up and down John's shaft, with a sharp suck on the glans before each downward slide. He takes John's balls in one broad hand and tugs gently in concert with his sucking. John's head falls back against the wall with a soft thud.
"Oh, fuck, that's good," he murmurs. "That feels good."
Sherlock goes back to the rapid bob of his mouth on the top of John's cock. John shudders, his knees closing on Sherlock's ribs. His breathing turns to short, hard-edged huffs.
Slower again; John shifts restlessly and then settles once more. Sherlock drops his free hand into his own lap, unbuttons his fly, and insinuates his hand inside his clothing. He groans around John's cock as he grips himself. John drags air in noisily through his nostrils and tilts his head forwards to look at Sherlock: red lips wrapped around his cock, pale eyes snapping sparks as Sherlock returns his stare. John groans and clenches his hands into fists. Sherlock takes his hand from John's balls and pulls on his wrist. John reads the permission given; he shifts his weight onto one elbow and splays the other hand over the top of Sherlock's head.
"Fucking Jesus," John says softly as Sherlock recommences tugging his balls in concert with the pull and push of mouth along John's cock, Sherlock's right shoulder works the same rhythm as his pumps he hand around his own cock. John's thighs tense, his knees tighten on Sherlock's sides, and his fingers flex in Sherlock's hair.
"You're getting me close," he warns.
Sherlock growls encouragingly. John's hips move on the rhythmic clench and release of his buttocks as Sherlock works his mouth faster, his head bobbing and his dark hair brushing against the pale skin of John's belly. John's fingers bite into the curve of Sherlock's skull.
"Oh fuck. I'm so fucking close," John gasps.
Sherlock's eyes fall closed. The movement of his mouth roughens as he thrusts his cock hard into his fist. He pushes his mouth down recklessly, his nose pressing into dense muscle and crisp curls of brown hair.
"I'm going to come," John whispers, his entire body tensing. "Oh fuck. I'm going to come."
He does, utterly silent except for the billow of his breath out of his nostrils, but every muscle jerks in sympathy with the repeated pulse of his semen out his cock. He slackens as Sherlock groans around him, hips jerking messily as he comes, too.
"Jesus. Fuck," John says, his hand slipping from Sherlock's head.
Sherlock draws back just enough to swallow, and then slides his mouth greedily down again. He draws back more slowly, sucking John clean as he goes, licking the clinging smears of semen from around his foreskin before letting him go completely. He pulls his lips between his teeth, and licks the corners of his mouth carefully. John shifts his legs a bit. Sherlock leans back, giving him space to sit and pull his clothing back together. Their eyes meet, John's still drugged dark with pleasure, Sherlock's cold and clear and a little unsure.
"That was incredible," John husks.
Sherlock smile is just a slice of light behind his eyes and the faintest tightening at the corners of his mouth.
"I - could use a towel," he says.
John's gaze drops to Sherlock's hand still inside his pants.
"Hang on" he says.
He gets up, goes into the bathroom,and comes back with a hand towel that he drops into Sherlock's left hand. Sherlock inhales, caving his belly to open enough space between himself and his clothing to scoop the towel in and collect most of the mess. John tucks his shirttails in, buttons his fly, and fastens his belt. Sherlock unfolds off his knees, up onto his feet.
"You said the men's bodies were taken to Kandahar Air Base," John says, his voice a little glottal but perfectly steady. "I'll arrange a chopper - given the clearance you've got, we can probably be in the air in half an hour."
"Good," Sherlock says, wiping his hands.
John looks him up and down thoughtfully, then walks out the room and closes the door quietly behind him.

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